Khristov
by Lady Mythology
Summary: Elena meets a man who needs to be punished. Full scene from 'Twenty Years', but can be read by itself. Warning: violence.


This goes in my story 'Twenty Years', but I guess it can be read as a stand alone. Elena (vampire) met a man who needed to be punished. I wanted to keep the 'T' rating of 'Twenty Years' so edited it. Here's the whole version.

Warning: violence. Blood, guts, gore. Also, my first time trying to write this kind of scene.

Apologizes: to people I offend. It isn't intended.

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><p>The 'service' or 'mass' or 'whatever' was in Bulgarian.<p>

Unlike the Italian services, it was harsh, guttural, and chilling.

This wasn't a church; it was more like a cult.

He wasn't a pastor; he was more of a demon-caster.

A little kid started fussing. When it didn't stop, he grabbed a poker out of the fire, red hot from the coals. The dad just sat there. A little boy tried to protect the other; they both got burned.

And old man stormed in, ranting in Bulgaria, German, some Italian, and a fair bit of English, too. The old man just blamed him for not having enough belief in 'God', and that's why he wasn't cured. And when he had turned to leave got kicked behind the knees for wearing shots. He ran the hot poker down his knees, shaming him in front of everyone, just for wearing shorts.

I _knew _he was a creep. He wasn't a just a creep: he was a scam artist, too. When a young girl had been dragged to the altar by her parents, kicking and screaming the whole way, I was confused. There was some manic glint behind his eyes. He had two boys with him, twelve or thirteen, no older than that, hold her, sick pleasure on their faces. He was free to move around, spouting 'devil' and 'demon' over and over, waving his crucifix, making the 'sign of the cross' or whatever on her forehead.

He repeated it a few times.

I caught a whiff of something. Maybe it was because I was in one of the front seats, maybe because I was suspicious, I didn't know. There was alcohol on his breath, and not just alcohol. His eyes were clouded and I knew he was on some kind of drug. No, no, _he _wasn't on a drug – there was something on his hand.

That's why suddenly, as if in an 'act of god', the girl stopped fighting, falling limp against the boys. He _drugged _her. Her parents wept – in fucking _joy_. They both emptied their pockets in the offering tray and blabbed, through tears, that they'd only get him more.

I was doing my absolute best to keep my anger in check when he turned his 'be-gone-devil' spiel on me. Unlike everyone else, I didn't flinch. I only got angrier. That anger only intensified when I saw the boys drag the poor girl off stage, to a dark recess of the room.

I don't know if he was shocked, impressed, or angered that it didn't affect me. Instead of seeming phased, he was _happy_, proclaiming me a _true _believer, and moved on to his next victim.

I became a true creature of the night as people slowly slipped out. I found the girl and her parents, told them what the boys had done to their baby off 'stage'. I compelled them to get her _real _help; I compelled her to forget unless she was asked if she wanted to charge them with whatever they could. I waited – and waited and waited and waited some more. I was a vampire. I had all the time in the _world._ Finally, he made his way down the aisle and sat next to me.

He was talking too quickly in Bulgarian for me to fully understand him, but he was riding some sick kind of high.

I didn't even want to drink his blood – I didn't want his blood to _taint _me.

I let the vampire – I let the _monster _– fully take over. I – it – _we _wanted to cause him as much harm as we could.

I branded him the devil, with the red hot poker he used on kids, the sick, and the elderly. The wretched smell of burnt flesh assaulted my sense, but I reveled in it. I burned his clothes off, leaving him in naked glory to his god who shamed nakedness. I cut off his beard and mustache and hair. I cut down his chest, down his arms, and down his legs. I broke his fingers and his toes and pulled out all of his teeth but his fangs.

The whole time I let him scream, let the delicious waves of pain I was causing him crash over me like tides of pure _bliss_. I was high – high on death.

I took his hand in mine, soothing him. "Shh. It will be okay."

He tried to talk so I cut off his tongue. On second thought… I cut off his manhood as well. It was sick and twisted and I was enjoying it too much.

I took the silver daggers he decorated the altar with, and pinned him up on the cross he had desecrated. I gave his feet two daggers to balance on, to take the strain off his arms. He wet himself and soiled himself. That, combined with burnt flesh, would have made any human sick; I _reveled _in not being human. I _reveled _in what I was able to do to him.

My cuts weren't deep enough to bleed him quickly, and the poker kept hot enough to cauterize his wounds. I traced invisible, imaginary lines under his eyes, echoing the repulse and hunger reflected on my face, and poked his eyes until they pooled red.

"Does your God save you know?"

With careful precision, I etched 'devil' on his body, over and over again, mimicking the stylization of the burn on his back.

Finally, I snapped.

I took the daggers out of the bottom of the cross and his body sagged with his own weight. I cut a line down his chest and across his chest, filleting the skin off of his body. I broke his sternum with ease, and dropped the bloodied mass on the altar. I ripped his heart out and cradled it in one of his hands. I tore his head off and made his other hand hold it. In a final act, I shoved his manhood where his heart should have been.


End file.
